That’s the end of my restraint.
My hand tangles in her hair as I drag her mouth back to mine, the kiss no longer gentle — it’s hungry and rough and starved, like I’ve walked through hell just to get back to this moment, and maybe I have.
She moans, soft and desperate, and I swallow the sound as I walk her backwards until her spine meets the stone ledge of the rooftop. Her fingers claw at my jacket like she needs me closer, like she’ll go mad if there’s even an inch of air between us.
“I should stay the fuck away from you,” I mutter against her mouth, trailing kisses down her jaw, across her throat. “But I can’t. I fucking can’t.”
“Then don’t,” she breathes.
Her voice is shaking.
So is mine.
“I can’t just keep fucking you in the dark,” I say, hands sliding up her thighs beneath her hoodie, fingers brushing lace. “You’ll ruin me, butterfly. I already know it.”
She exhales like it’s the only thing keeping her alive. “You saying that while your hand’s under my hoodie?”
I grin, savage.
“You want romance?” I whisper. “Or you want me to bury my face between your legs and remind you why you taste better than peace?”
Her gasp goes straight to my cock.
She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t have to.
Because she’s already climbing into my lap, straddling me on the ledge like the city doesn’t exist, like the stars aren’t watching, like I didn’t just spend a week in hell thinking I’d never get to touch her again.
“Lay back,” I order, voice gravelled.
“On the rooftop?”
“On the stars.”
She sucks in a breath as I guide her down to the blanket, her hair fanning out beneath her like a fucking halo. Her hoodie rides up, thighs parted, eyes wild.
“You sure?” I ask, kneeling between her legs.
“I want your mouth,” she says. “Nothing else. Just that. Just—just you.”
I let out a broken groan.
And lower myself like a man begging absolution.
But there’s no God here.
Just her.
Just the scent of her — hot and sweet and fucking addictive.
I drag her panties down her legs, slow enough to make her squirm, then toss them somewhere I don’t give a fuck about.
“Open wider,” I murmur, kissing her inner thigh. “Let me see what’s mine.”
She does.
Shaking.
